


Scrappy

by justlikepagliaccis



Series: hazza & macca [2]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Bar fights, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, george can fight okay, george wants to go home, hamburg era boys, he's just too smol, paul cleans up the mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27376882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikepagliaccis/pseuds/justlikepagliaccis
Summary: Paul had made himself George's defacto protector during the boys' stay in Hamburg, but he isn't always around to keep George out of trouble.
Relationships: George Harrison/Paul McCartney
Series: hazza & macca [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999891
Kudos: 23





	Scrappy

**Author's Note:**

> I initially posted this on Wattpad under the same name! There isn't near enough mcharrison content on this site, and I wanted to add to the growing pool of fics. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> – adeleine

George hissed, clutching his forehead, covering the blossoming bruise with the palm of his hand. His head was throbbing, pulsing. It reminded him of his mum's nagging. 

Why didn't you be more careful? You know not to pick fights with lads like that! Why couldn't you just come right home like a good boy? 

If George were back home, he would've been getting an earful. Fortunately for him – or unfortunately – he was miles away in Germany. He didn't make a habit of picking bar fights. If he was being honest with himself, George wasn't a very good fighter at all. But that bastard had been asking for it. He'd pushed George to his limit with those beady eyes and the smug smirk of his thin lips. 

Hans had been his name. George was a quarter of his height and size. Hans was a sailor. He was a muscled brute who knew nothing other than taunting barbs to get a rise out of his victims. George, with his sharp-glass expression and slick leathers, was the perfect target. He was a mouse to toy with, and Hans batted him around like a spoiled cat. 

Paul had been with him. Protecting him, he said, like George was a child. He always seemed so proud to watch over George, sliding into the role as he did with his younger brother, Mike. But Paul had stepped away for a quick beer, leaving George alone in the sea of people with Hans prowling around looking for a fight. 

"Looks like your little boyfriend left, eh?" He had laughed, syllables scratchy and catching in his throat. 

George ignored the comment, choosing to slowly squeeze through the crowd. He wanted to leave. It was too hot and too sweaty and too much. But Hans grabbed a hold of George's shoulder in a meaty paw, forcibly turning him back around. 

"Where do you think you're going? I was talkin' to you." 

His grip grew painful and George shook him away, scowling at him. "Fuck off." 

"You think you can talk to me like that, mouse?" Hans growled, reaching for George again. 

"I said fuck off –" George yelped as he was hefted up off of the ground by the front of his shirt, his light body easily carted around like a rag doll. 

Hans was laughing again. His breath reeked of cheap beer and cigarettes. George wriggled around in his hands, swinging bony fists in Hans' direction. A few of George's punches met their mark on his jaw, causing enough of a distraction for Hans to drop him to the floor. 

George underestimated how far away the floor was and his knees buckled as soon as he landed. He tumbled to the ground and into the swimming audience of bar-goers. They didn't realize he was down there and served George with many kicks to the stomach and face before he managed to stand up. Everything was spinning, even the form of Hans who was reeling back to get his own swing in. George ducked, but not quick enough and was clipped on the cheek. 

"Fuckin' bastard," George wheezed, fighting against Hans constant assault with his hands and nails, clawing at any bit of skin he could reach and making sure he drew blood. He thought he got a good jab at Hans' eye because there was a cry and they were being separated from each other. 

George fought against the person restraining him, kicking his legs out to push them away. "Let go!" He screeched. "Where's Paul at?! Paul!"

The glassy-eyed features of his bandmate could be seen amidst the chaos of people shoving and pushing to get a look at the fight. Paul was with Stu at the bar, elbowing him and pointing at George. From behind his sunglasses, George could tell Stu was wide-eyed as well. He wondered why, but it dawned on him. 

Little Georgie could fight. 

"Fuckin' 'ell, Paul! Come 'ead!" George cried, hoping to garner the attention of Paul. 

The man that had his arms twisted behind his back was dragging him outside the back way, tossing George out the door and into the alley with a thud. He landed in a crumpled heap on the cement, groaning. 

Paul hadn't ever come for him, so George was forced to make his way back to their shared room alone. Going from one bar to another had George on edge, his hackles raised and constantly ready to defend himself each time he was brushed. But no one bothered him at the little Hofbrau and George was allowed to make a quasi-dignified retreat into the broom closet they called a bedroom. 

George was curled up on his little cot, the thin mattress providing no comfort to his aching bones. He found that if he stayed as still as possible, the pain would subside briefly until George breathed too hard or jerked his leg. 

They had no bandages, no aspirin. They hadn't thought that far ahead when planning the ferry trip over. 

He huffed into his flat pillow, wrinkling his nose at the moldy odor. 

Hours passed in silence. The only thing that could be heard was George's ragged breathing and the thumping bass from the stage just a wall away. He hadn't wanted to go home so badly in his life. It was so close, yet so very far away. George longed for his feather pillow and his mum's biscuits. At the very least, he wanted something to quell the pounding in his head – something to shut out the sound of the drunken rave next door. 

"Well if it ain't our genuine German fightin' George!" 

"Fuck off, Paul," George moaned into his pillow, refusing to look up. "I'm sufferin' enough without yer input." 

"Rude," Paul said, as if truly offended. "Get up, I brought you something." 

George grumbled something about Paul being bossy, but slowly pushed himself up off of the bed, wincing at the sudden light pouring into the room. Paul had switched on the small overhead bulb, flooding the small space in a dim glow. He held out a brown paper bag like an offering, a truce. 

"You got thrown bloody hard back there, Geo. You have to be more careful." Paul's nagging sounded a lot different than George's mum's. 

Paul sounded kind. Too kind for this to be passed over as brotherly concern. George could see something more in his eyes. Almost affectionate. 

The bag had two packets of biscuits – the chocolate ones that George loved – and a small bottle of painkillers. Paul had bargained for the pills. His leather jacket was gone. 

George retrieved the first package of biscuits, tearing it open with his teeth to get to the treats within. He didn't waste any time devouring the entire sleeve, barely paying attention to Paul standing nervously at the door. 

"Thank you," George mumbled, his mouth full. "Where did you get them? They're just like the ones back home." 

Paul looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "I kept them with me. Y'know, just in case." 

George furrowed his brow. "In case what?" 

"In case this." 

Paul crept forward, hand going to tenderly sweep around George's hairline, pushing his thick clump of hair back against his skull. The gesture was soothing. George couldn't help but lean into the comforting touch, feeling his cheeks blossom a bashful pink. 

"I love you, George. Y'know that, right?" Paul's voice was so low that it could be lost in the vibration of the walls around them. The cars whizzing by outside the window. 

"Love you too, Paul," George replied softly, nosing at Paul's cheek. He snuck his cold hands underneath Paul's shirt, holding him tight.

Somehow, Paul squeezed into the narrow bed beside him, pressed up against the wall and served as a barrier between George and the nauseous, booming noise. "You sent that little prick away crying," Paul said into George's hair. It was a sweet lie. "I'm proud of you, love." 

George grinned wide enough for it to hurt, hiding away in the folds of Paul's clothing, burying his nose in the scent of home and Paul's canned sea breeze cologne. He felt safe. Secure in their bubble against the world. There was hope in the fact that George would be home soon enough – they would be home together. 

There were endless possibilities in that statement. 

For now, George was content in nestling himself in Paul's arms, listening to Paul croon at him softly. Words of praise and sugary reassurances that led George into peaceful dreams. 

FIN.


End file.
